


Fishes in Troubled Waters

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Desperation, Desperation Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean watches Javert fall apart in front of him, though Javert does not know he is observed. As far as he is concerned this is a private battle played in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishes in Troubled Waters

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains a brief mention of wetting at the end.

There is something about the crumble of control, Valjean finds that disturbs him. He cannot precisely name it, cannot quantify it or understand why exactly he feels this tight shiver of apprehension that runs down his spine when he sees a proud man on edge, but he does know that it sends a shiver of delicious anticipation down his spine. He spent so long,  _so long_  subject to the whims of others, bent beneath the lash, every sinew straining to avoid the inevitable, without any semblance of control over anything at all- not his life, not his flesh nor even towards the end his mind. He remembers- how could he not? that slow sweet slide into oblivion, how easily his mouth shaped 24601, how even at night he did not think  _Valjean_  but cradled that knowledge of subsumation, let himself shrink away and remain alone.   
  
  
It took so long to drag himself back from the brink of oblivion, to retrieve every scrap that made him up, to remember the soft plushness of a woman's mouth against his own- Emilie, he remembers, and the pain pierces deep and sweet within him. Village girl, he remembers her. And the rough coarse taste of broth made with loving hands, the embrace of a brother, the smile of a child. Painstakingly he had built himself back up to some semblance of a human being, seized back the humanity that had been wrested from him.   
  
  
Now he watches another man suffer like this, and it does not stir him to compassion, does not make him wish for absolution, to bend at the priest's knee and absolve himself of the sin of watching someone else suffer in this way.  _Payback,_  he thinks at first, but that is not right, that does not fit. He does not inflict this from some sense of revenge, merely from an electric urge to see another undone, to spill forth and despair as once Valjean had despaired. There is a hot tightening in his nether garments, concealed as he is by his solid desk, he palms one rough hand across the bulge, and does nothing else. Innocent it looks he knows, and this is key. He will not seek his pleasure no, but when it is brought to him in such a way, will he turn God's gift away?  
  
  
Before him, Javert shifts and strains as he makes his report. It has been a busy week, there has been a long list of crimes, many words to tell, and Valjean,  _Madelaine_  as he reminds himself now had been absorbed in urgent work, had had to instruct his household to please Inspector Javert to supply him well with tea and cake for longer than he had expected. Now Javert does not stand so straight, nor so still as is his wont, and Valjean knows the cause, can read it in his eyes, the slight beginnings of desperation, the need to go and discharge himself of his heavy burden. Duty and pride, war with want and need and as always duty wins. He will not leave, will not make his excuses nor beg this indulgence- show weakness, show how nature too affects him, strong Javert. His hands are snapped behind his back, and he does not breathe too much, nor move without cause, as from heart he recites his report, explains in simple words what he has done and hopes to do.   
  
  
Another man would perhaps not have read these signs- for Javert's face is hard to understand, hard to pick apart. Only Valjean whose life once depended on reading the moods that flickered across his countenance can read it now- there is strain round his eyes, harsh lines tug at his mouth, and the look in his eyes is of far away things. On the desk there rests a jug of water and Valjean pours himself a glass, offers it to Javert with the polite meaninglessness of the exemplary host, watches with a quickening of the breath in his mouth as Javert tightly waves it away- the model man in so many ways- he will not drink in Valjean's presence, will not eat or sit. If Valjean so desired he could bid him leave, could watch the quickening steps that drove Javert from his presence, could imagine the silent gusty relief that he would take if so given the chance. He does not desire so.

 

Instead he talks of aimless things, things that should be saved for another time he knows- already he has taken up too much of Javert's time, and it is usually at this point that the man will excuse himself to return to his duties. Javert respects, obeys his own internal rigid code as to what is right, seemly and proper, and that includes him following his own way. There have been times when Valjean spoke too long on the inconsequential, and Javert bade him a brief farewell before departing to contine his work. Now though he stays, does not mention the time, widens his stance a brief fraction of an inch and continues to mouth words that have lost meaning entirely. This leaves Valjean with a most interesting dilemma.  
  
  
Does Javert not move from late-blossoming respect that will not allow him to leave before Valjean tells him to go? He dismisses this thought without an instant of reflection. Javert is not inclined to change, the respect he shows is only ever in keeping with the due and allotted amount that he should provide to one such as the mayor. The combination of a pressing need, and the awareness of having fulfiled his duty should allow him to depart with dignity. Then the second thought rises slowly, darkly in his mind. As Valjean trembles within, does Javert burn without? Is this no imposition on his need, but instead a satisfaction of his desire?  
  
  
As Valjean obtains a certain pleasure in watching the sight of Javert contain his desperation, does Javert reflect back his want, does he need to prove his control? He can imagine how it must weigh on the other man's mind. If he leaves now, he will have given in. He will have allowed his body to dictate how long he remains, allowed the triumph of matter over the mind, and with this in mind, Valjean pushes further. "If you have no time," he says carefully, "then of course I must delay you no more," and between his legs, his prick gives a hot pulse. He supposes he should be ashamed but he is not. He has borne worse than this himself.  
  
  
Javert's back straightens, and Valjean's gaze cannot but settle on the lines that are being carved immutably deeper into his face into how carefully he stands, and then drops for a mere second to what is the source of Javert's discomfort. "Not at all," the other man replies, and there is stoicism there, and an edge that Valjean cannot quite name, as though in his own way, Javert challenges. Not Valjean, he doubts that Javert is even aware that Valjean sees what is happening, but  _himself,_  another step in the silent, terrible war of attrition between what he wills that he should be, and what he has to work with in his body. Valjean is an onlooker, separate and apart, he exists as a conduit for Javert's need to excel to prove himself to the world. Something in him uncurls. He is no mere watcher, and the heat in his stomach, that aches along his hips that has been so long missing protests at the idea. "Drink with me," he says abruptly, and pours a second glass of water and holds it out. It will be rude for Javert to refuse directly, and Valjean does not care if he drinks the water. He wants to see him walk to obtain it.  
  
  
Javert moves with relative ease, perhaps the tiniest hitch in his steps, and Valjean  _knows_  how it feels, as every man must know who has ever travelled. Heaviness within, sharp clenching tiny pains, the need to let go and find relief in a way that feels like nothing else ever. He has abandoned the pretense of not scrutinising Javert's face completely now, ignores the papers that litter his desk, watches so closely that he sees the twitch of a stern lip, and then, eventually the beginnings of fear in the other man's eyes. He almost relents, almost forces Javert to end this battle between himself and his control, almost removes the decision from his hands to continue with this, but something stills his words as he opens his mouth to speak them. Javert has taken a sip of the water that he holds in tight-clenched hands, knuckles white on the glass, and Valjean has abruptly lost his train of thought, thinks that if he stood now, his trousers would present a sight almost as embarrassing.

 

He watches Javert drink, raise the glass, once, twice and then a tremulous third time to his lips, as though he does not understand what he is doing, does not know that he pushes himself too close over endurance, trembles on a thin line like a juggler in the town square, balancing too much, tied up too close in what he feels and how he must maintain it, and Valjean is aware how close to the edge he is himself. Javert washes away in front of him, a man too much consumed, and Valjean throbs with so many needs. He wishes to let Javert erode, wishes also to hold the scattering pieces of him and restore him to composure and the warring desires conflict within him. When his hands fall to his lap, it is damp from the excitement this arouses in him, and still he swells hard and aching though he has barely indulged in so much as the lightest brush of his hand.  
  
  
All too soon, a visible shiver passes through Javert's form, and his face- generally so blank- is adorned with the faintest glisten of sweat, and when next he speaks in response to the near unintelligible words that are all Valjean has been able to muster in the semblance of reasonable conversation (something about the repair of the Rue le Gardin's walls he knows vaguely) it is to beg to be allowed to make his excuses and depart, and Valjean hesitates for just a moment too long- Javert leaves with long hasty strides, and Valjean's hands find his prick in seconds, just as with the benefit of narrowed eyes he sees the spreading stain darken the coarse material of Javert's trousers as unbidden he loses control at the last, and like that he tumbles over the edge himself, barely touched, shivers through a petit mort as powerful as any he has ever known. He does not know what devil possesses him to follow Javert into the sitting room where he tries so vainly to restore himself to order and offer him a longer coat for concealment. Is aware for long terrible seconds how close Javert comes to striking him, before he subsides at the sting and clinging of the wet material to his legs and stiffly takes the offered coat.   
  
  
He returns to his desk, to his room and thinks for long hours on the ethics of so stripping a man of dignity, but cannot find it in himself to repent.


End file.
